“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

They know nothing of the living.

You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

They know nothing of the living.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

They know nothing of the living.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Who is a sea monster or a tempestuous ocean so that his storm may be a leviathan constrained by the tongue?

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

They know nothing of the living.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
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